Such a course would have coincided with my own wishes; but the hunter-guides opposed it. Their reasons were just. In open ground they could have lifted the trail, but under the timber the moon's light would not have availed them.

They could have tracked by torch-light, but this would only be to expose us to an ambuscade of the enemy. Even to advance by moonlight would be to subject ourselves to a like danger. Circ.u.mstances had changed. The savages now knew we were after them. In a night-march the pursued have the advantage of the pursuers--even though their numbers be inferior.

The darkness gives them every facility of effecting a surprise.

Thus reasoned the guides. No one made opposition to their views, and it was agreed that we should keep our ground till daylight.

It was time to change the sentinels. Those who had slept now took post, and the relieved guard came in and flung themselves down, to s.n.a.t.c.h a few hours of rest.

Williams and Spence took their turn with the rest. They were posted on one side the glade, and next to one another Hickman and Weatherford had fulfilled their guard tour.

As they stretched themselves along the gra.s.s, I noticed that they had chosen a spot near to where the suspected men were placed. By the moonlight, they must have had a view of the latter.

Notwithstanding their rec.u.mbent att.i.tudes, the hunters did not appear to go to sleep. I observed them at intervals. Their heads were close together, and slightly raised above the ground, as if they were whispering to one another.

As before, I walked round and round--the moonlight enabling me to move more rapidly. Ofttimes did I make the circuit of the little pond--how oft, it would be difficult to determine.

My steps were mechanical--my thoughts had no connection with the physical exertions I was making, and I took no note of how I progressed.

After a time there came a lull over my spirits. For a short interval both my griefs and vengeful pa.s.sions seemed to have departed.

I knew the cause. It was a mere psychological phenomenon--one of common occurrence. The nerves that were organs of the peculiar emotions under which I had been suffering, had grown wearied and refused to act. I knew it was but a temporary calm--the lull between two billows of the storm.

During its continuance, I was sensible to impressions from external objects. I could not help noticing the singularity of the scene around me. The bright moonlight enabled me to note its features somewhat minutely.

We were encamped upon what, by backwoodsmen, is technically termed a _glade_--oftener, in their idiom, a "gleed"--a small opening in the woods, without timber or trees of any sort. This one was circular-- about fifty yards in diameter--with the peculiarity of having a pond in its midst. The pond, which was only a few yards in circ.u.mference, was also a circle, perfectly concentric with the glade itself. It was one of those singular natural basins found throughout the peninsula, and appearing as if scooped out by mechanic art. It was deeply sunk in the earth, and filled with water till within three feet of its rim. The liquid was cool and clear, and under the moonbeams shone with a silvery effulgence.

Of the glade itself nothing more--except that it was covered with sweet-smelling flowers, that now, crushed under the hoofs of horses and the heels of man, gave forth a redoubled fragrance.

The picture was pretty.

Under happier circ.u.mstances, I should have contemplated it with pleasure. But it was not the picture that so much occupied my attention at that moment. Rather was it the framing.

Around the glade stood a ring of tall trees, as regular as if they had been planted; and beyond these, as far as the eye could penetrate the depths of the forest, were others of like size and aspect. The trunks of all were nearly of one thickness--few of them reaching a diameter of two feet, but all rising to the height of many yards, without leaf or branch. They stood somewhat densely over the ground, but in daylight the eye might have ranged to a considerable distance through the intervals, for there was no underwood--save the low dwarf palmetto--to interrupt the view. They were straight, and almost cylindrical as palms; and they might have been mistaken for trees of this order, had it not been for their large heads of leaves terminating in cone-shaped summits.

They were not palms--they were pines--"broom" pines [_Pinus Australis_], a species of trees with which I was perfectly familiar, having ridden many hundreds of miles shaded by the pendant fascicles of their acicular foliage.

The sight of these trees, therefore, would have created no curiosity, had I not noticed in their appearance something peculiar. Instead of the deep green which should have been exhibited by their long, drooping leaves, they appeared of a brownish yellow.

Was it fancy? or was it the deceptive light of the moon that caused this apparent change from their natural hue?

One or the other, soliloquised I, on first noticing them; but as I continued to gaze, I perceived that I was in error. Neither my own fancy nor the moon's rays were at fault; the foliage was really of the colour it appeared to be. Drawing nearer to them, I observed that the leaves were withered, though still adhering to the twigs. I noticed, moreover, that the trunks were dry and dead-like--the bark scaled or scaling off--that the trees, in short, were dead and decaying.

I remembered what Hickman had stated while groping for the direction.

That was at some distance off; but, as far as I could see, the woods presented the same dim colour.

I came to the conclusion that the _whole forest was dead_.

The inference was correct, and the explanation easy. The sphinx [Note 1] had been at work. The whole forest was dead.

Note 1. _Sphinae coniferarum_. Immense swarms of insects, and especially the larva of the above species, insinuate themselves under the bark of the "long-leafed" (broom) pine, attack the trunk, and cause the tree to perish in the course of a year. Extensive tracts are met with in Florida covered solely with dead pines that have been thus destroyed.

CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE.

A CIRCULAR CONFLICT.

Strange as it may seem, even in that hour these observations had interested me; but while making them I observed something that gratified me still more. It was the blue dawn that, mingling with the yellower light of the moon, affected the hue of the foliage upon which I had been gazing. Morning was about to break.

Others had noticed it at the same instant, and already the sleepers were rising from their dewy couch, and looking to the girths of their saddles.

We were a hungry band; but there was no hope of breakfast, and we prepared to start without it.

The dawn was of only a few minutes' duration, and, as the sky continued to brighten, preparations were made for the start. The sentries were called in--all except four, who were prudently left to the last minute, to watch in four different directions. The horses were unpicketed and bridled--they had worn their saddles all night--and the guns of the party were carefully re-primed or capped.

Many of my comrades were old campaigners, and every precaution was taken that might influence our success in a conflict.

It was expected that before noon we should come up with the savages, or track them home to their lair. In either case, we should have a fight, and all declared their determination to go forwards.

Some minutes were spent in arranging the order of our march. It was deemed prudent that a few of the more skilled of the men should go forwards as scouts on foot, and thoroughly explore the woods before the advance of the main body. This would secure us from any sudden attack, in case the enemy had formed an ambuscade. The old hunters were once more to act as trackers, and lead the van.

These arrangements were completed, and we were on the point of starting--the men had mounted their horses, the scouts were already entering the edge of the timber, when, all on a sudden, several shots were heard, and at the same time, the alarm-cries of the sentries who had fired them. The four had discharged their pieces almost simultaneously.

The woods appeared to ring with a hundred echoes. But they were not echoes--they were real reports of rifles and musketry; and the shrill war-cry that accompanied them was easily distinguished above the shouting of our own sentries. The Indians were upon us.

Upon us, or, to speak less figuratively, _around_ us. The sentries had fired all at once, therefore, each must have seen Indians in his own direction. But it needed not this to guide us to the conclusion that we were surrounded. From all sides came the fierce yells of the foe--as if echoing one another--and their bullets whistled past us in different directions. Beyond doubt, the glade was encompa.s.sed within their lines.

In the first volley two or three men were hit, and as many horses. But the b.a.l.l.s were spent and did but little damage.

From where they had fired, the glade was beyond the "carry" of their guns. Had they crept a little nearer, before delivering their fire, the execution would have been fearful--clumped together as we were at the moment.

Fortunately, our sentries had perceived their approach, and in good time given the alarm.

It had saved us.

There was a momentary confusion, with noise--the shouting of men--the neighing and prancing of horses; but above the din was heard the guiding voice of old Hickman.

"Off o' yer horses, fellers! an' take to the trees--down wi' ye, quick!

To the trees, an' keep 'em back! or by the tarnal arthquake, every mother's son o' us'll git sculped! To the trees! to the trees!"

The same idea had already suggested itself to others; and before the hunter had ceased calling out, the men were out of their saddles and making for the edge of the timber.

Some ran to one side, some to another--each choosing the edge that was nearest him, and in a few seconds our whole party had ensconced itself-- the body of each individual sheltered behind the trunk of a tree. In this position we formed a perfect circle, our backs turned upon each other, and our faces to the foe.

Our horses, thus hurriedly abandoned, and wild with the excitement of the attack, galloped madly over the ground, with trailing bridles, and stirrups striking against their flanks. Most of them dashed past us; and, scampering off, were either caught by the savages, or breaking through their lines, escaped into the woods beyond.

We made no attempt to "head" them. The bullets were hurtling past our ears. It would have been certain death to have stepped aside from the trunks that sheltered us.